


synonyms for what we can’t yet say

by missymeggins



Category: Castle
Genre: F/M, Post-Finale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-22
Updated: 2013-09-22
Packaged: 2017-12-27 07:28:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/976101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missymeggins/pseuds/missymeggins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The only ring she’s ever worn was around her neck.</p>
            </blockquote>





	synonyms for what we can’t yet say

She says yes. 

But the words feel wrong in her mouth. 

(Like they weren’t supposed to leave.)

He looks at her in shock. His eyes are wide, his jaw is slack and he doesn’t move. She rocks on the swing and the motion feels out of place with his stillness but she can’t help it; she is moving whether she likes it or not. 

“Yes? You’re saying yes?” he finally breathes out. 

“Yes,” she says again. 

“As in, yes you’ll marry me?” His face breaks into a wide grin - a typical, Richard Castle over-the-moon sort of grin and even though the word ‘yes’ is twisting in her stomach and her tongue feels like it wants to take it back, she smiles too because he is so happy and she loves him. 

She barely blinks and the ring is on her finger and his arms slide around her waist. Everything about this moment should feel right. His arms around her waist are usually a comfort. 

In this moment they feel like handcuffs. 

 

 

The air between them changes. It’s almost like what she felt when their relationship first shifted and they started sleeping together. Like walking on eggshells, only something smaller and not quite so fragile. 

But still it feels as though they have to be careful where they step. 

 

 

They go home. His home, not hers. He holds her hand the whole way. She finds it distracting. She’s always enjoyed the warmth of his palm against hers, the feeling of safety that came with being connected to him and the sense that he was _there._

But her hand is in his on one side and the other has a ring on it. The unfamiliar weight makes it feel like it’s not her own. 

When they get inside he lets go and moves immediately to the fridge, reaching in and pulling out a bottle of champagne. Apparently keeping a bottle of champagne in the fridge for any given occasion is just something he does. 

She shouldn’t be surprised. 

“I think this deserves a toast, don’t you?” 

All she can do is nod, though there’s a smile on her lips that she can’t quite control. 

His excitement is wrong somehow. He’s nervous and he’s uncertain and he’s trying to make this moment what he thinks it should be only it’s not. 

She knows he can feel it too. 

He’s talking too much. Not that she hears the words. She’s watching his face and his hands as he pours the champagne and passes her a glass, and her own hand as she accepts it. The ring on her finger is almost blindingly out of place. 

(The only ring she’s ever worn was around her neck.)

 

 

When he kisses her, the knot in stomach disappears. Or she forgets to notice it. She’s not quite sure which it is. 

This is the problem, has always been the problem with them. It _feels_ right. But feelings aside she’s attacked from the outside by a whole series of questions, practicalities, reasons, not to. 

It _feels_ right but they jump too quickly. 

It’s ironic because they spent so long not jumping at all but the minute they decided to go forward it was like they had to pretend the past hadn’t existed. 

She doesn’t doubt that this will probably be it for her. She doesn’t doubt that she loves him, and wants a future with him, and that’s why it was easy to say yes, to let that syllable simply slip past her lips because in the right moment, at the right time, she doesn’t really doubt that ‘yes’ will be the right answer. 

It just isn’t yet. 

 

 

His fingers are in her hair and she’s curled up on her side. This is how they usually fall asleep. 

It took a few weeks to navigate the complexities of sharing space. At first she tried to sleep in his arms but she never could. She worried that her turned back would be misread so she lay sleepless while his clock seemed to tick excruciatingly slowly, waiting for him to drift off so that she could feel at ease enough to sleep herself. It didn’t take him long to feel her restlessness, understand that she needed something _less._

He loosened his arms and she loved him for it. 

She can feel the slow motion of his fingers playing with her hair as he falls asleep and she knows, despite the knot in her stomach that refuses to disappear for more than a few moments at a time, that she still loves him for it. 

She loves him for his ability to love her in the ways she needs. If she’s learnt anything by now it’s that love isn’t simple, it’s complex. Loving somebody is hard because sometimes your needs aren’t the same, and the way you _want_ to love somebody isn’t the way they need to be loved and the truth is, they’ve always had conflicts. They are very different people. 

Despite what public appearances may suggest, grand gestures aren’t an empty means to an end for him. He’s _not_ the playboy who spends his money just to get a date. When he loves, he loves grandly, that’s just how he is. 

But it’s not who she is and he learned that quickly. 

She would like to be grateful that his proposal was simple. No skywriting, no public to await her reply, just him and her on a set of swings. 

She would like to be grateful but she’s not and she knows this isn’t how you’re supposed to feel after agreeing to marry the guy you love. 

(It’s the agreement that’s wrong somehow. She does love him, there’s no question about that.)

“So, we should talk about this job offer,” he says. It breaks the silence and for _that_ she is grateful.

But also she’s not sure yet what she wants to say. 

“You wanna take it don’t you?” he presses on. 

“Yes,” she answers quietly. 

She doesn’t speak further. She doesn’t know what else to say. In the darkness she waits for him to say something more but he doesn’t. 

She waits. 

And she waits. 

And she waits. 

And then she falls asleep. 

 

 

Everything feels out of step; the natural rhythm has been broken.

(In her ears it’s replaced by the nervous thump of her heart in her chest.)

She wakes before him and she’s hungry so she extracts herself from the sheets and his arm around her waist to go and make breakfast. 

She’s just finished making two cups of coffee when enters the kitchen. “I thought I smelled bacon.”

He moves automatically to the coffee machine and as he reaches for the controls she tries to hand him his coffee; it bumps his knuckles and sloshes slightly over the side. 

“I made coffee already,” she tells him. 

“So I see.” 

He smiles at her. 

(He usually makes the coffee.)

 

 

She’s just hopped out of the shower when her phone rings. “We’ve got a murder,” she calls over her shoulder to him. 

“I’ll be dressed in five!” he tells her enthusiastically, skidding his way down the length of the kitchen in his haste to leave. 

This at least (at last) feels normal. 

In the car he asks what she knows about the case. 

“There’s a body,” she tells him dryly, resisting a smile as she waits for him to bite.

“That’s it? That’s all you got?”

“Yep, that’s it.” 

“You really should ask for more information,” he says, shaking his head in either mock or real disappointment. She feels as though she can no longer decipher him now.

“Why?”

“Because I really hate waiting so long to find out who died and how and if there’s anything weird about it.”

“You’re five.” 

“Yes,” he says, seriously. “I am.”

She reaches out and rests her hand on his thigh. 

This is familiar, this is comfortable. They’ve ridden to crime scenes together for five years. They’ve taken the same car, from his or her place, for nearly a year. It’s routine, it’s normality, and she can’t imagine what it would be like not to have this. 

She can’t imagine what it would be like not to have him. 

They pull up to the crime scene and she steps out of the car she pulls the ring off her finger, slipping it into her back pocket. 

She’s pretty sure he notices but he doesn’t say a word.

 

 

It’s not exactly a case to write home about. Or, write a novel about. 

It’s simple as far as murders go. It’s bloody and it’s violent but it’s not new; they find her with her head bashed in. The apartment is sparsely furnished and untidy, littered with pizza boxes and beer bottles. The bloodied baseball bat lies next to the body. She’s seen this crime scene dozens of times. 

The victim’s boyfriend - whom neighbours report to be a less than pleasant neighbour - is nowhere to be found. 

Simple. 

_Easy._

Unlikely to have any other resolution and there’s not nearly enough mystery to distract either of them. Castle doesn’t even try to come up with an outlandish theory. 

“So, the boyfriend probably did it,” he says. He sounds almost tired. She understands how he feels. 

It begins to feel futile when you can walk into a crime scene and you don’t even need imagination to fill in the blanks. This is humanity at its saddest and she finds herself exhausted by it, wanting to run from it. 

She runs her hands through her hair and takes a breath. “Okay, there’s not much to see here,” she tells the unis. “Have CSU finish their sweep, we’ll go talk to the neighbours.” 

“Coming Castle?” 

He does, without comment. 

Like always she moves, he follows. 

This is what scares her. She’s moving forward, moving _away_ from the life she has now; she can feel it, inevitability, and she’s not sure it’s a decision to follow her so much as it has just become instinct to him

It needs to be more than that. 

 

 

There’s not much to do back at the precinct. It’s mostly paperwork and it’s not nearly enough to stop Ryan and Esposito from noticing the air of uncertainty between them. 

Castle sits at her desk while she fills out the forms but he doesn’t chatter at her. He just plays on his phone silently. It’s glaringly out of place and as Ryan and Esposito exchange glances Beckett can feel their eyes on her. 

She’s so busy trying to look normal that she doesn’t notice Esposito sidling up behind Castle. Apparently neither does Castle. He jumps when Esposito speaks. 

“Checking out real estate in DC? You moving bro?” It’s a casual sounding comment, a hint of humour in it as though he’s making a joke, but Beckett knows better. Beckett’s seen every single one of Espo’s interrogation techniques and this is one of his best. This is the one that cracks the suspects who haven’t yet realised they’re being interrogated. 

“What? No. Just. You know, killing time while Beckett does the boring stuff,” Castle says quickly, tossing out a somewhat forced and unconvincing laugh. 

“Uh huh,” Esposito says suspiciously. 

Beckett looks at Castle in surprise. He meets her eyes for only a second before she turns back to her paperwork and he fumbles with his phone, trying to put it in his pocket as he stands and says, “Who wants a coffee? I think it’s time for coffee.”

 

 

There’s too much silence between them. Neither know what to say to the other and as the day moves around them - paperwork, and waiting, and cups of coffee - they bump into each other and stumble over their words as though they haven’t moved as a synchronous team for the past five years. 

All she can think is that it shouldn’t be like this. They’re supposed to be getting married. They should feel like a team more than ever. 

But they don’t. 

 

 

“You were looking at real estate?” 

She can’t handle the silence anymore. She’s been swallowing words since the day Agent Stack offered her a job. Only that’s not the whole truth and she knows it. She’s been swallowing words since the night she knocked on his door, soaked from the rain, and they closed a door on their history in favour of the present and, maybe, their future. 

Her throat is raw from all the words she’s been choking back down. 

She wants normalcy back. 

He stops mid-step, halfway to the couch. “Yeah I was,” he says. “You’re upset aren’t you?” 

“No, I just…” She sighs at the sight of his face, anxious and afraid because he thinks he’s getting in trouble. 

“Castle, don’t you think we need to _talk_ about our relationship?” 

She sits on the couch and motions for him to follow. 

“What do you mean?” he says wearily, idly trying to pretend like he doesn’t know. 

“I mean a week ago we were fighting because neither of us know what this relationship meant, or where it was going and now suddenly we’re engaged and I feel like we skipped the part where we tried to figure out what we meant to each other and what we wanted and just went straight to the end because that would be easier.”

“Easier than admitting this job is more important to you than me.” His voice is bitter but his face just looks sad. 

She shakes her head. She doesn’t want it like this. 

“No, Castle. It’s not that simple and it’s not true. The fact you automatically think that - well that’s my whole point. We never even _talked_ about where we were headed. And so I got this job offer and all I could think was, fuck, am I supposed to turn it down for you? Am I supposed to give up a job opportunity for a relationship?” 

She’s expecting him to interject, have a vocal opinion, but he doesn’t. 

“And the thing that bothered me wasn’t the idea of having to choose, it was that I felt like I had no idea what I would be giving it up _for._ Would I be giving it up for another year of fantastic sex and solving murders? Were we just going to continue living the status quo or was it going to _be_ something?” 

“How could you ever have thought it _wasn’t_ something Kate? It’s _always_ been _something._ And I thought it was a pretty damn good something.” 

“Me too,” she admits easily. She reaches for his hand, wants him to feel her sincerity. “Castle, I love being with you. I have no regrets about the relationship we’ve built this past year. I have been really happy doing this thing with you.”

“But?” 

He says it for her and she can’t decide if she’s grateful or annoyed. She doesn’t want there to have to _be_ a ‘but.’ There is of course and he knows it too. 

“But we never talked about it. We’ve never really talked about any of it,” she answers bluntly. 

“Any of what?” 

“Us. Everything. I mean, this relationship has never followed an easy or normal path. A lot has happened between us. We’ve hurt each other. We’ve lied, we’ve kept secrets. It’s been messy.” 

“Not this past year,” he tells her. “At least, I haven’t.” 

“No, I know that, and me neither - just for the record. But doesn’t it bother you that we never talked about all the things that happened before this?” 

“You mean the part where we were idiots and pretended this wasn’t what we wanted for four years?” 

She smiles. “Is that really how you feel? You’re not angry anymore, not even a little bit?”

He shrugs. “I admit, I can be an asshole. I got angry at you, for things I probably shouldn’t have and I guess I’ve never apologised for that. But honestly? I just thought moving forward meant leaving all that in the past. I should have tried to talk about it. I should have realised that was something you needed”

“It’s okay. It felt _easier_ to just go with this new version of us. This _happy_ , uncomplicated version of us. I liked it,” she shrugs. 

“But you’re gonna take the job?” he prompts.

“Yeah, I am.” She takes a breath and runs a hand through her hair. “I’m not going to hold you to anything, you know? It’s okay if you can’t actually commit to coming with me. It would be a lot to ask, I get that.” 

“Are you asking?” 

“I don’t know. Part of me wants to. I don’t want to end us.” 

“But.” 

She appreciates that he has the courage to speak the ‘buts’ that she can’t. She appreciates his ability to read between her lines. 

“But I don’t want to ask you to come with me. I don’t want you to resent me for making you uproot your entire life,” she answers, finding the words rush out a little more quickly than she’d like. 

She’d _like_ to be cool and calm but she’s not. She’s not unafraid of the outcome this conversation might have for them. She’s not afraid to admit that anymore either. She wants him, she wants this to work. 

“Maybe I want you to ask?” he says quietly. “Maybe I want you to want me to come with you. What will it say about our relationship if you find it that easy to just pack up and leave?”

“Is that really what you think? That it would be easy?” 

“I don’t know. I don’t know what you want Kate.” 

“Exactly. I’m not sure either of feel like we know exactly what the other wants from this relationship in terms of right now and that seems like a terrible way to get engaged.” 

“I’m an idiot aren’t I.”

“No. You’re not. You’re impulsive. And it really is one of the things I love about you.”

“But you need more time,” he says quietly. 

“Yeah, I do. I think we both do.”

She watches his face, follows the path of his eyes as they land on her hand where he thinks a ring should be. She knows she’s right, they’re not ready yet. Neither of them. But it’s hurting him that this isn’t simple or easy like he thought giving her a ring would be. 

“It was easy to say yes, you know,” she tells him, running her fingers down his cheek even though he won’t look at her. 

“Hey,” she says, more firmly now. “Look at me. It was easy to say yes. That means something Castle. If we didn’t have something real, it wouldn’t have been easy to say yes. And it wouldn’t be as hard as it is right now to say no.” 

“I guess,” he answers almost petulantly. 

“Tell me something, honestly Castle. Do you really want us to get married right now?” 

“No,” he answers begrudgingly. He doesn’t like to be wrong, or to take things back. 

“But,” he follows up quickly, looking at her directly now. “I’m not going to pretend I haven’t thought about marrying you. I hadn’t really thought in terms of actuality until this job came up and that proposal was all wrong - I mean, there should have been skywriters or something - but marrying you has always seemed kind of inevitable in the back of my mind.”

“It’s okay, this doesn’t mean it won’t happen” she tells him, pulling him closer to her. She brushes her lips against his, an almost kiss that she moves to his cheek. “Just save it. Think of it as a first draft. You tested it out but this just isn’t the right part of the story.” 

He smiles, for the first time in this whole conversation. “I think I’ve finally had an influence on you.”

“You don’t even realise how much, do you?” 

(He really doesn’t. So he just kisses her instead.)

 

 

They decide (together they decide, with pro con lists and Beckett trying to be practical and Castle trying to fly a remote control helicopter while she does) that real estate should wait for now. 

Castle uses some connections to help her find a decent apartment and they agree to a somewhat loose schedule of visits. A couple of nights a week, depending on their work loads. 

“And how horny you get,” he adds. 

She rolls her eyes. (But it might be just a little bit true.)

 

 

He flies with her the weekend of the move to help get her settled. 

It’s here in this brand new space, with no memories or baggage attached to it, that they find the words start to come more easily. 

Over unpacking boxes, and glasses of wine, and takeout dinners; over the course of weeks and months as she gets settled and they adjust to new routines and not seeing each other every day, they talk about their past. And their future. 

“You mind if I hold on to this?” she says on their first night there, pulling out the chain with her mother’s ring on it, showing him that now there’s two. 

He smiles, “I’d like that Kate.” 

 

 

(One day, a few years later she wakes early to make the coffee. As she hands it to him in bed, the morning sunlight catches something bright; she’s wearing his ring. 

He smiles at her. 

“You ready?” she asks. 

“Absolutely, he answers.”)


End file.
